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howl-fantasies · 2 years

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Turning point

A/N - Got a very interesting request from @flare123 : “May I pls request a reader x gotham character where they discover the side of y/n or reader that is like Sherlock from bbc? Like they find something beautiful and somewhat sentimental? Ex: "the moon looks beautiful tonight" "what?" and character looks at them all confused.”

I re-watched the moment Sherlock said that line and the way Watson reacted. I love how he makes his point in front of Watson who usually present him as an individual incapable of feeling human emotions, like a machine. But he’s not and wants the doctor to understand it with an example. If you’re interested in theory analysis, look at the post made by @aconsultingdetective and in the notes, I find them pretty accurate.

But I’m babbling, again... SO, here’s how I imagine a turning point in reader’s and Gotham cast relationship, where they saw Y/N as something else than a creepy maniac sometimes going on killing sprees. I hope it was what you had in mind and that you’ll like it! I gave it a try with Jim, Ed, Oswald and Victor. Tell me if you want to read it with more characters and who and I’ll make. another post!

Warning: english mistakes, still working on it sorry! I decided to write Y/N as a woman, but if you prefer, I can change it and make it gender neutral or use a him, that’s not a problem.

JIM GORDON

If you asked Jim what were his thoughts about Y/N, after their first encounter, his answer would instantly have been: “same as Zsasz, a homicidal maniac and a sadist.” Was his statement still accurate? yes, pretty much. But he had to recognize that the assassin was a little more complex than that.

He heard about how she helped Wayne once, hacking his own company when the child was looking for some irregularities in it. He also saw her once shooting some mobsters running after him then claimed it was because she had a contract on their head. Truth be told, she confused him greatly.

You cannot be working with Victor Zsasz on a day to day basis and be sane or a good person or possess compassion, that makes no sense. She was a psychopath, and a dangerous one at that, as the GCPD psychiatrist said to him and the cops when they were studying her case.

So what was his surprise when he found said sicko sat at his table in front of his package of cornflakes, looking intensely at something inside of her hand. “What are you doing here Y/N?!” He asked quickly as he grabbed his gun and aim at her warily. “Did Falcone send you to kill me?!” He added tensely.

She seemed absorbed by her task and didn’t even turn to look at him. “Can’t believe they still make those dinosaurs. Look at that velociraptor, those stupid marketing teams didn’t even rework on the design after the world learnt they had feathers and were the ancestors of chickens...did you know that by the way?” She asked while finally turning to look at him with a serious face.

That was utterly ridiculous. “Sorry, what?” He asked in disbelief and rapidly blinked before adding, “I mean I knew that but, why this observation? Are you drunk or something?”

She looked back at the figurine again and said airily, “I used to collect them, when I was a child. Those shitty plastic things were my most valuable possession. I still have them, in a box. Never had the velociraptor though, you’re lucky”.

Jim put his gun back in his holster, still shaken by her curious attitude and cleared his throat to bury the “cute” he thought a second ago. “Uh... Keep it, I mean, I usually throw them away.” He said slowly, still wondering if he was on drugs or something to see something so strange.

“Eh, that’s how I used to found them, in the trash. Throw it away, I’m pretty sure some kids will pick it and grow their collection.” She answered, putting the dino back in the box before lifting up from her seat, and stopping in front of him. “We definitely need more dudes who throw the figurines away, they’re good eggs.”

He just opened his mouth stupidly and blinked, watching her moving again to his front door. “Oh, I heard Penguin wants you dead again, something about making a raid at your flat, today, 8PM sharp. Have a good night, Jimbo”, and she leaved.

Jim stayed in absolute silence during five solid minutes before whispering “What the hell was that?” Before looking at his clock 7:30PM.

ED NYGMA / THE RIDDLER

ED first met Y/N when he was still working at the GCPD. He just saw her from afar when Gordon took her inside of the interrogation room, never talk to her in person at that time. The forensic knew about the diagnosis the experts put on her, a psychopath and couldn’t help himself to check and spy a bit when Gordon interrogated her.

His next thought was : fascinating. The woman was stuck in a room with only one door heavily guarded, in front of one of the most perceptive cop of the place and looked and sounded like she was perfectly at ease when he would be sweating bullets.

She managed to escape, that day, and he didn’t see her again until he got out of Arkham and started to work with Oswald. They didn’t talk that much even when he saw her around the little man, mostly because he wanted to stay far away from her partner who didn’t seem to like how intensely he was studying her.

Not in a romantic way, for god sake! He wanted to see if she was indeed a psychopath like the psychiatrists said, and a sadist and the extend of that.

That morning, he felt luck was with him when he saw her reading a book next to the window. What a mundane activity for a blood thirsty killer. “Pride and Prejudice?” He asked in disbelief after leaning a bit to be able to see the title.

She raised a brow and offered him a quick look. “A problem with that Eddie?” She mocked a bit as he clicked his tongue, irritated by the nickname.

“Isn’t it lacking of... I don’t know, blood? Violence and murders?” He questioned while also raising his brow. “I have not the pleasure of understanding you, Ed. And same goes for you”, she answered calmly, turning a page.

He was dumfound a second before smiling like a madman and sitting quickly in front of her. “That sentence... No way you know the book by heart!” He giggled.

She crossed her legs and blinked once, still not looking at him, “I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! - When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”

Ed applauded twice and raised a curious brow. “Are you seeing yourself as Miss Bingley, Y/N?” He then asked still trying to solve the puzzle she was.

The woman offered him a sly smile and a glance. “Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending to play you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth from her heart. I am no Miss Bingley, Ed.” His grin was even more bigger.

“Knew it, you’re like Elizabeth.” He said. And she hummed in a good-natured way. “We indeed have some savagery in common, I’ve always loved how she verbally roasted people.”

The genius sneered at that a bit but was interrupted by Oswald walking in the room and stopping at the view of the two peacefully sat in the morning light. “What are you doing here?” He asked more for Y/N than him.

“Acting, boss”, she said while continuing her reading. “Well stop that!” He scoffed then pointed at the door. “Go do something productive instead of waisting your time and MY money!” He scolded.

She didn’t say anything and obeyed, leaving the two. Oswald turned to him with a frown, “that harlot made fun of me once. ‘Acting’ like she didn’t know Victor at Mooney’s, saying something like ‘He looks miserable, poor soul’ when he entered.

“And as I idiot, I had to point that miserable he may have been, but not poor since he worked for the king or Gotham and also possessed de facto half of the city. Then, the witch told me-...” “The miserable half?” Cut Ed, earning a shocked face from his friend which made him smirk. Yes, Y/N was a psychopath, a sadist. But she was also FUN, he decided as he chuckled.

OSWALD COBBLEPOT

The morning wind was chilling that day. As each Sunday, Oswald limped his way to the top of a hill not too far from the city, where his mother was now resting peacefully.

He took the time to stop at a flower shop an hour ago, buying her favorites and was ready to find himself alone in front of the cold stone, remembering of his time with the woman for who, he would have burn the world.

He stopped dead in his tracks at the entry of the cemetery though, seeing someone already here. Nothing too alarming, until he noticed Y/N looking pensively at the grave of his mother. His blood ran cold and he limped faster, threatening her with the bunch of flower he bought.

“What are you doing here Y/N?! I hope for your survival you didn’t dare to touch a thing! You freaking psychop-...” He had to stop his screaming when he saw many flowers put on the ground and a few on the stone. “What is that?” He muttered incredulously.

The woman was looking at the flowers too and waited a second or two before answering and pointing at one of them “chrysanthemum”, she said flatly. “The guy at the flower shop said it was a good one for a dead person.”

Then she pointed another one, “white carnations, used in the south of Europe as the flower of the dead”. Next she brought her finger on a lys, “saw it once inside of a coffin, thought it was beautiful”, she explained. Finally, she took one of the many red flowers she put on the stone.

“Poppies, my favorite”, she muttered. “I don’t really know about language of flowers, but I knew about the story behind that one. In the mythology, when Persephone was abducted by Hades, Demeter was inconsolable. So, the gods gave her a poppy to help her sleep.

“Afterwards, poppies sprang from Demeter's footsteps. She also transformed her mortal lover, Mecon, into the sacred flower.” She said airily, then turned to look at him. “Those ones were for you though. I know how much you loved her.”

Cobblepot look at her utterly shocked with an open mouth, incapable of speaking. “I just talk to her once, but she was gentle, polite and cared about you deeply. She gave me some of her goulash to try it at home. One of the best dishes I have ever ate I have to say.” She explained, putting the poppy back on the grave.

“Couldn’t visit before, timing was not good and I didn’t want to interrupt you.” Seeing Oswald still silent, looking at each flower with wide eyes, she blinked and shrugged a bit.

“I can throw them away if you don’t like it and never come here ever again, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” She said while lifting her hand to remove the flowers.

“DON’T!” Said Oswald much louder than he expected, grabbing her wrist with his free hand. “Don’t remove it, they are beautiful... Mother would have loved them, Y/N”, he now muttered, still moved by a so considerate gesture coming from Y/N.

“Where did you find the poppies, it’s not even the season”, he wondered. “I grow them at home with special light and in a room at good temperature, I like to see them.” She simply said.

The little man just nodded, still surprised by all the improbable new information he heard during this improbable morning and crouched to arrange his own flowers on the grave.

VICTOR ZSASZ

Ruthless, cold-blooded killer, pragmatic, logical, sassy and sarcastic. That was what Victor Zsasz would answer you if you ask him what were his thoughts about Y/N when he started to work with her.

Very good qualities for an efficient partner may he adds. And she was, the duo terrorized most of the mobsters, punks and rogues of the city since it started to work together.

He sometimes caught a few sentences she said, which were similar to his favorite music lyrics but thought it was simple chance at first. Like when she shot that guy and said flatly “another bites the dust”, or when he called her and asked for a back up and she answered “Never gonna give you up, dude”, already on her way to join the bloodbath.

That day, she was first in Falcone’s kitchen, Liza was probably still asleep since the sun wasn’t even here yet. She was drinking coffee with the radio on, when he appeared at the, seeing her back.

She gasped stupidly when “Gimme Gimme Gimme” by ABBA started to play and even leaned on her seat to grab the button to crank up the volume. So she indeed share his musical preferences. Good to know.

He stopped and crossed his arms while looking at her, moving her head in rhythm with the disco music and mouthing the lyrics as one of her legs bounced in rhythm too.

That was too funny and he was glad to be able to control his emotion so well or no doubt, he would be rolling on the floor while laughing hard at the view of Gotham no2 assassin acting like a girl singing a sappy song, though he silently thanked her to spear his ears since she was almost silent.

When the song ended and he was ready to embarrass her beyond measure, he saw her lean again and talk to the radio like the singers were able to hear her, “Want a man bitches? go chase him or something. Groove is great though, I’ll give you that”.

It was too much for him and he let a stupid snort escape, which made her turn on her seat and look at him annoyed. “Should have seen yourself, that was something”, he mocked. He didn’t anticipated the backfire.

“Should have seen yourself, watching me like a lover in a movie with that stupid smile on your face.” She bite, then pointed at the stainless steel on the wall in front of her. “Can see your reflexion here, idiot”, she added.

“Why didn’t you say anything then?” He asked curiously. She shrugged a bit, “Looked like a normal life domestic situation, I wanted to experience it once, since I saw it on TV last time”, she said pensively. He blinked, then frown, then tilted his head letting an incredulous “Uh?” escape, “What was that?”.

She stayed silent and turned back to sip her coffee again. He stayed here like an absolute idiot a good second, then walk to her, taking a seat next to the woman. “Can I have a coffee?” He asked flatly like nothing happened.

She indulged him and served him one, then started to read her journal in another language. Only to find the man next to her looking at the pages intensely above her shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing?” She sighed, clearly irritated by his behavior.

“Reading”, he muttered like it was an evidence. “You don’t even know the language, dumbass”, she facepalmed. “Translate for me then”, he said again like it was logical. “Why would I do that?”, the woman asked. “Because it’s domestic”. He then pointed at the picture of a trial, “looks fun, read it.” And she did.

#gotham imagine #gotham x reader #gotham #gotham fox #victor zsasz #victor zsasz imagine #victor zsasz x reader #gotham fandom #gotham x you #oswald cobblepot imagine #oswald cobblepot x reader #oswald cobblepot #edward nygma #edward nygma x reader #edward nygma imagine #jim gordon x reader #jim gordon #Jim Gordon imagine #gotham villains

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angeli-marco-writes · 3 years

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Sherlock Holmes - Kiss Me, Mr Detective

A/N - Season 1!Sherlock, the cutie. And friends to lovers. Two of my favourite things. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, the character, the universe, the adaptations or anything: this is a work of fiction set on the BBC adaptation of Sherlock. Did I still write 8.2k words (exactly) for it? Yes. I also don’t own the song or the lyrics used within, and if you fancy it, listen to ‘Kiss Me’ by Ed Sheeran while reading.

Warnings - Bad language. Mentions of murder and drug usage. Mild angst. Smut, loss of virginity, masturbation, oral m receiving, penetration, unprotected sex, so 18+.

Summary - After a fight with John leaves Sherlock feeling particularly down, he calls on the one person who is always there to support him. Only tonight, it’s different. Feelings come to a head, exploration ensues, but is this just a one time thing? That depends on whether she stays the night...

TO SHERLOCK, it’s just another normal day, whereas to John? He’d rather not admit how regularly these awful days roll around. Sure, the case didn’t go as well as it could’ve, and Sherlock admittedly could’ve made much more of an effort to comfort John after the apparent ‘heartbreak’ he endured. He just could not understand it. Why the hell was John so emotionally responsive to a case they’d been on for less than twenty four hours which turned out to be a bust anyway?

“You are absolutely unbelievable!”

“People die every day, John. You’ve killed people, as have I. It isn’t that great a surprise.” Sherlock deadpans, picking up his teacup, raising it to his lips, drawing a long sip from the warm liquid.

“Oh, yeah, of course. The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.” John mocks. “Do you not even care that people are still dead despite the fact you solved the case?”

“They’d be dead either way,” he reiterates, “at least we got to them before they completely decomposed. Will me caring about them stop them from being dead? No, Dr Watson, it will not.”

“Sherlock!”

“John!” He mimics.

John slams his hands down on the desk, shaking the wood and everything resting on it, surely sending the vibrations through the floor and notifying Mrs Hudson of their ‘domestic’ as she so likes to call them. The buffalo even begins to swing. John’s tea is long forgotten, but Sherlock’s is keeping him grounded, calm, as John waggles his fist in Sherlock’s passive, blank face.

“You-” he pauses, gulping down breath. “You are a fucking machine, I can’t even deal with you right now. How dare you be so cold hearted and untroubled by this. You’re a disgrace.”

As if he hasn’t heard that one before, Sherlock scoffs.

Placing his teacup back down with a clink, he stands, the darkness of the night, of the room, closing in on them both. Nights like these really are danger nights, any night John leaves him. That’s what's coming next, but there isn’t a thing he knows to say or do to prevent the inevitable. He’ll simply just text Her instead, she’ll keep him grounded.

“Why? Emotional context? Emotion, whether of ridicule, anger, or sorrow, whether raised at a puppet show, a funeral, or a battle, is your grandest of levellers. The man who would be always superior should be always apathetic.”

With a huff like a bull, John viciously turns on his heel, blaspheming under his breath, cursing Sherlock out. He reaches for his coat and snatches it off the stand, slamming the door open.

“MACHINE.” John screams before pulling the door shut with a great slam, seething, the coat stand still rocking in his wake.

John’s footsteps thunder down the stairs, but before he’s even gone, Sherlock’s phone is withdrawn, and he’s tapping out a message.

Can you come over? Please? SH

It wouldn’t usually bother him as much. The case didn’t phase him, at all, but John’s opinion did. It always does. But today was a particularly long day of being brutish and rude, cold and distant, his usual and true self, but John’s more and more impatient with him now.

Being called a ‘machine’ is, again, nothing unusual, but this time it stings a little more than usual, especially after his recent arrest, and a fallout with Molly. He only has one person left, right now, who doesn’t hate him. His longest friend, the one he keeps away from it all so as to not tarnish her life with his misdeeds; Y/N, the one he can always rely on.

He knows she’s arrived by the sound of his window crashing open. Crawling up the bricks, skimming the drainpipe, latching onto the ivy; it’s her usual manner of entry. She never uses the door.

Putting his cups and saucers into the sink, he makes his way through the house, opening his bedroom door to find her already sitting there on the bed, her coat hung up on the hook, her work clothes clinging to her body.

“Hey there Mr Detective, you okay?” she asks as jovially as she can muster.

The way he ambles across the room, his dressing gown floating behind him, and slumps down onto the bed, instantly tells her he’s not okay at all. She can’t help but to look upon him sympathetically, edging a smidge closer to him, until he’s prompted enough to wrap his arms around her torso, finding his rightful place tangled around her. She knows him well enough - his past, and his current life - to realise she’s the only person he’s ever felt comfortable enough around to do this with, and that brings her a certain swelling pride in her bosom, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock as he feels her skin heat up against his cheek.

It doesn’t take long, either, for his head to follow suit, burying into her chest. He’s always, always had a thing for her boobs, ever since they were in uni together.

That’s something so special about the two of them, he doesn’t have to say anything for her to know he’s not okay the way he does with everyone else. And naturally, he can read everything about her in a split second.

“I’m here, bud.”

Above all else, he just needs to know someone is there for him in moments like these. The world is cruel to him, and Y/N wishes more than anything that it wasn’t. Upon instinct, her hands stray, one to his back, pressing against the silk of his dressing gown, the other cradling his long neck, fingers knotting in the dark curls there.

She isn’t sure how long she stays there, simply holding him, feeling every twitch of his muscles, every breath of his against her skin, but she likes it. Of course she does, every time she likes it. Sherlock brings her an inordinate amount of comfort at the best of times, today is no exception, especially with what the day has held. Even when she’s the one comforting him, he doesn’t realise how much he helps her too.

His flat is so familiar, his bed as comfortable as her own. She knows his sock index, she’s studied his periodic table over his shoulder more times than she’d care to admit, and she even has her own toothbrush in the bathroom in case she has to pop over for an emergency freshen up. Sherlock has, and always will be, her first port of call, and that she remembers as she shifts further onto the quilted bedspread, her phone on his oak bedside locker.

His head begins to stir against her chest, his curls tickling her collarbones, small hums escaping his lips as he pushes himself up, his elegant yet trembling hands still splayed on her waist.

“I could feel your heart beating weirdly, what’s wrong?” he asks, quirking his eyebrows.

“Just the usual.” she vaguely replies.

Sherlock isn’t having it, though, and scans her a little more. “You’re still in your work clothes.”

“Great deduction. I was hoping you’d go a little deeper, though.”

“You hate wearing work clothes longer than necessary, which means you had plans straight after work, considering you finished… five hours ago? That’s your usual time for today. Counting overtime, forty five minutes, walk to your car, another ten, but your umbrella wasn’t working, round that up to an hour, leaving at 6. You arrived home, no, not home, at your boyfriend’s house for dinner. However, you’re not comfortable enough with one another yet for you to use his shower, or perhaps you are, but you elected not to, and stay in damp clothes that only had seventeen minutes to dry with the heater on in your car for the journey there. You ate dinner, Mexican, had a glass and a half of five percent wine, realised you couldn’t drive, but you didn’t particularly want to stay. Nonetheless you sat and watched the telly with him for hours, football, I can see the dreariness in your eyes. I know how much you hate it, and frankly, same. You stayed for almost all of the match, seeing as you’re now sober, but something else happened.” She lulls her head to the side, prompting him, her smile not meeting her eyes. “As soon as the match ended, he tried to make a move on you, he pressed his mouth to yours, he tried to push his hand up your skirt;” his throat bobs with a vicious gulp; despising the thought of anyone else laying a finger on her, “you swatted him away, rightfully so.”

He pauses a minute, his harsh tone of voice and his sharp face softening. He can see the vulnerability in her eyes, her walls about to crumble. This woman he appreciates so much. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Smiling melancholically up at him, she brings her hand back to his hair, her fingers carding through the soft curls. His face buries back into her chest just as her voice offers a broken whisper, “I broke it off. I was the one who couldn’t commit this time.”

And as she lays her head on top of his, her breathing more shallow, resounding in her chest, he dwells over those very words. The way she said them, not to mention the words themselves, hold a myriad of meaning. What could she possibly-

Oh.

The subtext, yes, impeccable. She’s always had a way with implications and subtext, always knowing that the likelihood of him actually picking up on it is little to none. But now, now he’s become trained to her, her way of life, her way of thinking, her way of speaking. This is too good an opportunity to miss. If she means what he thinks she means, ever hopeful, then this is completely unfamiliar territory.

Gathering all of his courage in one deep breath, he begins to pepper kisses on her skin. The faintest brush of his lips on the tops of her breasts, all that’s available to him with her shirt the way it is. He feels her heart flutter, her breathing stutter, but despite the chemical flush of her chest, he still isn’t quite sure she likes it. Not until he feels her grip on his hair increase, and he glances up to see her head thrown back. Her spine delicately arches against his hand, thrusting her chest further into his face.

His nimble fingers reach for her buttons, undoing the top two, giving him space enough to find the valley between her breasts. Lathering kisses there, licking the swells of her boobs, his tongue pulsates with the increased thrumming of her heart. The sensation is new, so unbridled, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the stirring in his loins right about now. That unknowing is only further amplified by the sound that rips from her chest when he involuntarily bites down on the supple flesh. It couldn’t be… a moan?

Sure, he understands the chemistry of it, the reactions that occur in the synapses of the brain, the pheromones and hormones released when one is aroused, but this is all new to him. And, from his embarrassingly basic level of theory, surely that doesn’t start until some more stimulation on other parts of the body commence? Nipples, perhaps something lower down… then again, what does Sherlock know?

Of course it’s an intimate moment, the closest he’s been to a woman before, and maybe that’s why he freezes, stops, and she tugs his head up by his hair, her gentle, pleasured smile with her lips softly parted deepening the look of bewilderment painted onto his face. Her eyes are twinkling, alight with an excitement he hasn’t seen for far too long.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

He shrugs his shoulders with a sudden force, his dressing gown falling off a little. “I don’t know. But now I feel like I read your pining words all wrong.”

She gasps, a wheezing sound, sucking the air from the room. She smacks his arm gently, muffled by his button-down and dressing gown. “I wasn’t pining! I was saying.”

“Hmm, same difference.”

Everyone must acquiesce when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. “But no, you didn’t read them wrong at all, but I know you don’t see me that way, you don’t feel things that way.”

He pauses, his beautiful plump lips pursed, fidgeting on the bed. Brushing her hair off her face reveals the pain she expressed. However, her eyes glued on his, sadness is betrayed in every line of his young, clean-shaven face. His entire bone structure is taking a nosedive.

“For you, I’ve been feeling everything from hate to love to lust, and I guess that’s how I know I want to hold you close.”

“Sherlock...” she whispers, her singular word an inflection of surprise.

Never tearing his eyes from her, his hand comes up to her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the slightly blushing skin, searching her face, with his big blue eyes, for a shred of reluctance. But, all he sees is her, so he elects to do what his heart is yelling at him to do for once, and kisses her breathless. His full lips holding hers, his one hand on her face, the other still wrapped around her back. Hers fly around his neck, clinging to him for dear life.

It doesn’t take long, their movements steadily heating, for their previously slow, intimate kiss to grow into something more, Y/N pulling herself up from the bed and making herself comfortable on Sherlock’s lap. His breath hitches in his throat, a cute little hiccupping sound escaping his lips in between embraces.

As much as he loves just this, soft caressing and gentle petting, he just knows she wants more. He does too, that much is evident from the length prodding at Y/N’s inner thigh as she moves gently on his lap. She won’t make a move, though, he’s too inexperienced, and she’s too much of a sweetheart to corrupt him, so she thinks. Ever since he first saw her, she’s been corrupting him slowly. He didn’t realise at first, but over the years, he began to understand, and now he’s in too deep.

For Y/N? It’s always been him. Every breakup she’s had, she’ll come to Sherlock’s flat, full well knowing the real reason she broke up with them, because she couldn’t commit, because she was too caught up on him.

Skimming his hands beneath her shirt, he savours the press of his hands on her bare skin, warmth seeping from her body into his, his fingers dancing along her spine. Electricity shocks her in bursts, unlike anything else, from his touch alone.

“May I take your shirt off?” he asks.

“Fuck, yes.” she groans. “May I do yours?”

“Be my guest.”

In a tangle of limbs, a few buttons pop off, and eventually, two shirts make it out the other side, tossed from the bed and into the laundry pile. Aka Sherlock’s floor. He’s like that: sock indexes, yet he won’t get a hamper. A walking contrast.

His thumbs press beneath the band of her bra, savouring the pressure of the flesh that falls into his hands, but that’s as far as he gets.

“Never undone a bra before?”

He shakes his head sheepishly. “I know the theory. Just… you always wear peculiar ones.”

“I wear relatively normal bras, and this one is certainly bog standard. Had I known you’d be undressing me Mr Detective, I’d have worn something nicer.”

“Just do it for me.” He requests, chuckling.

She unfastens her bra, and allows her breasts to spill from the cups, into Sherlock’s awaiting hands. The gasp that erupts from him sends Y/N’s brain into overdrive. He’s cupped her chest through her shirt before, buried his nose into her cleavage countless times, but never before have they had such skin on skin contact. Her lips press to his neck, shifting her closer to him. Sucking on his pressure point, she receives a similar gasp in response, only this one is more guttural, more a sound of pleasure than surprise. He’s wilting from a single kiss to his neck.

“Has no one ever given you a hickey?” She husks in his ear, her voice alone sending tremors down his spine.

“N- fuck, no.”

“I’ll make it worth it. All of this.”

“I know you will.”

She fuses her lips onto his again, savouring the faint hesitations as he grapples with his breath, eager to get some control on his mind with all that’s happening. Never did she ever think Sherlock would be here beneath her, his rough fingertips brushing over her peaked buds, and his palms dancing over her waist. Never did she think she’d hear him whisper his next words, either, not in a million years.

“More.” he pleads. “Can we do… more? Whatever that entails?”

“That depends what you want to do.”

“Get me out of these damn trousers. They're rather uncomfortable.”

She snorts lightly, a piggy like sound, the one they bonded over all those years ago. “I can feel why.”

“I imagine you want out of your work trousers, too.”

“God, yes; they’re ghastly.”

“I don’t think so.” he hums. “You look nice.”

Her cheeks begin to burn, blood rushing to colour them, betraying her true feelings, but as he tweaks her nose playfully, the little snort escapes again.

They were in the dining hall, second week of university, almost ten years ago, and Y/N was sitting with her friends, downing enough coffee to sink a ship, eating her hangover away, when her friends decided to make her laugh with tales of last night's drunken events. Unbeknownst to her, one of the greatest minds of the twenty-first century was sitting just a few seats down on the half-empty bench, watching her perceptively in his periphery. That’s when he first heard the sound. The cutest thing, and it startled him into action, beginning his deductions almost instantly. Admittedly, her student ID on the table aided him a little.

He shocked her from her haze, too, as soon as he spoke her name.

“Y/N, eighteen, jurisprudence first year, freshers week over with. You left a boyfriend back home, but you’re more sad about leaving your dog, as I would be. You don’t particularly care about law but know it’s a good undergraduate to receive anyway. Dyed hair, extrovert, killer hangover, and apparently there’s a little piggy living inside your nose. Sherlock Holmes, would you like some aspirin?”

“That’s weird; what are you, some kind of detective?” She asked, sans malice, a playful bounce to her words.

“Chemistry, going for a masters. But I do like the mystery, yes.”

“So you’re… bright. Nice to meet you, Sherlock, and it seems you know almost everything you need to know about me. But yes, I will take that aspirin, if you don’t mind. How was your weekend?”

He smiled at her, the first true smile he’d given in a long time. “It was nice, thank you.”

And thus a friendship was born, all because he heard her little piggy snort.

Her slender fingers work wonders with the fastener and zip of his suit trousers, and even manage hers too, all within the space of a few seconds, but Sherlock is reluctant to let her go, even just to get her trousers off.

“I need to sit up, just for a minute.”

“No.” Sherlock commands, insistent. “We can make this work.”

“Sure we can, but it won’t be very comfortable. Come on.”

She’s barely peeled away from him and wrestled hers off before he’s drawing her back in for a kiss, his trousers settled just above his knees.

“Sherlock,” she protests, mumbling against his lips, her hands on his heavenly, broad, muscular shoulders. “Sher!”

Her squeal at his sudden tug on her panties disappears, captured by his eager mouth. And in fact, her panties seem to disappear along with it, thanks to Sherlock’s swift movements and nimble hands. Maybe he’s had some experience to be so good at this…

“You sure you wanna go this far?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been. I need you.”

He takes a deep inhale, dropping his forehead against hers, his breathing coming out in bursts as he tries to get a grasp on the situation. “Kiss me.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, instantly getting to work on the waistband of his boxers as his tongue lavishes her own. His hips rise briefly, just long enough for her to tug the elasticated material from around him, slipping past her, and then he kicks it into their growing pile of clothes. His length falls into her awaiting palm, and-

“Wow.” She exhales in amazement. “If I’d known you were packing this much, I’d have jumped you long ago.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Absolutely not, until tonight I thought you’d just laugh at me.”

He pecks her lips affectionately, “Never. You’re bloody beautiful, I’ll let you do anything to me.”

“Hmm, anything, you say?”

Stifling a chuckle against her neck, he recommences, “Maybe not anything.”

Yeah, that's definitely the right call. Still, she finds herself all but clawing at him, her breath hovering teasingly just over his lips, their noses touching, her hands clamped to his cheeks, feeling the building heat there. She must be making such a mess of his bed right about now, but for one night? It can’t matter.

This is a one time thing, it has to be. Sherlock just needs to release some tension, she just so happens to be there. Still, she can’t prevent the little glimmer of hope shining through at the possibility of this being a more-than-one-time thing. The moral compunctions of their friendship after this don’t matter anymore, because he’s leaving a fire in his wake, his delicious fingertips digging bruisingly into her bum before trailing lightly up her spine, skimming her shoulder, brushing her neck - arched for him to reach where he wants, able to mark her as his own - and finally slipping over her lips, taken obediently by her awaiting mouth. Christ, if there’s one thing she hopes for tonight, it’s that his actions never relent.

Whether it’s what he intends to happen or not, his fingers in her mouth give her an idea, one she prays he goes along with at least a little, so she pulls away. The dirty, telling smile on her face hints at what she’s about to do, lending Sherlock to shift a little more up the bed, his eyes following her every move. Hands splayed on his thighs, her small fingers gripping onto the fine hairs there, she begins to take his tip into her mouth, never once breaking eye contact with him. Yeah, this is what’ll drive him insane.

Inch by inch, she takes him into the welcoming heat of her mouth, pulling off slowly, only to go down again. She adds her tongue into the mix at some point, too, and her hand, on what she can’t reach, tickling his balls, but further than that, his mind is blank. Hot white, washed with pleasure. The sounds he emits are other worldly, so much that he has to muffle himself with his own hand; what would Mrs Hudson say? He’s always had such control over his mind and body, but this… he’s slowly losing all semblance of control, and he’s not even mad about it. What he does know is that there’s a building heat in his abdomen, a coil about to spring, and his cock is beginning to twitch. If she keeps going this incredible way, her teeth grazing him ever so gently, adding another new sensation into the mix, he’s inexorably going to finish before he can help it.

“As much as I adore your torturous ministrations, I think I need to be inside you…” He husks, his voice deep.

A smirk gracing her lips, she looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, mischief glinting in her pretty little mesmerising eyes for a second, before she hollows her cheeks and takes him wholly, allowing his length to slip partially down her throat. Her moan reverberates around him, and Sherlock begins to thrash above her, scrunching the duvet in his hands, not caring if it creases. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates, it’s creases. And being called a machine by his best friend. Right now, though, it seems as though every misstep in his day has led him here, into the welcoming heat of Y/N’s mouth, taking him so eagerly, her tongue lapping at the vein on the underside of his dick, a string of saliva remaining as she pulls away.

“I think you’ve got a couple of rounds in you, Mr Detective. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yes.” He stammers, his head tossed back in pure ecstasy a moment later as she begins to work on the head with kitten licks. “But… can I s- fuck me, say something?”

“I plan on it.” she chuckles, “anything.”

She goes back to peppering kisses all over his member, tip to base, brushing his balls, working her way back up.

“Touch yourself f- for me.”

“What? Why?”

Her tone is more inquisitive than anything else, but upon that playfully rueful look in his lust-darkened baby blue eyes, she knows he’s going to get her back for this little display, and he’s just worked out how. It works both ways, she can prepare herself for what’s to come next while pleasuring him. And he gets to watch. It’s a win-win for him. Maybe he likes this sex thing a little more than he’s letting on.

“Are you sure you want me to? I’ll just make a mess on your sheets, Sher.”

She swallows him again, bobbing her head up and down on his length a few times while he grapples with literal reality. He’s teetering on the edge. One more move, and he’s a goner. His head is already against the wall, lolled there.

“I don’t care about the sheets, darling, I need you ready for me.”

She gulps, nods, and reaches one hand around her, skimming over her stomach, until it nestles between her thighs. She rubs her thumb over his tip, collecting the pre-come beading there, while she rubs over her throbbing pearl, pressing softly. Then, as she inches down on his cock, taking him in her mouth, she also collects the slick from between her thighs, and uses it as a lube to push a finger inside herself. Of all the times she’s touched herself, she never imagined, even in her wild Sherlock fantasies, that she’d be doing it with his dick down her throat. With every bob of her head, she scissors herself more, sinking back onto her fingers.

“I think I’m-” Sherlock begins to say, his words cut off by an utterly obscene moan splitting the air.

She hastily abandons her one post, and wraps both of her hands around his girth, working on what she can’t fit into her mouth with her increased speed, licking and suckling his head as he begins to fall apart, coming, with a scream, down her throat, his one hand clamped over his mouth, biting down harshly to silence his cries; the other buried in her hair.

His whole body falls lax, completely spent, meanwhile, Y/N savours every drop she’s been able to draw from him. He softens in her mouth, allowing her change to slip away from him, grasping a tissue from the bedside to wipe away any excess. That’s certainly something she never thought would happen…

He’s calm, though, smiling lazily through hooded eyes, his breathing regulated once more, making beckoning motions to her with his big hands. He’s placated, though, and sliding her hands into his, she’s allowed time enough to get into place, smiling softly at him, raking her fingers over his scalp in a comforting way. Even as she sits herself on his lap, she can feel him hardening beneath her ass, slowly but surely. She was right about him, he’s definitely got another round in him.

“Do you have a condom?” he asks.

“No, sweetheart, they’re in my other bag. I didn’t plan on getting any for a while… do you?”

“Not in here, that I’m aware of. John may have stashed some in my less favoured dressing gowns or socks, and he definitely has some upstairs, but I’m unawares.”

“I’m gonna sound crazy here, but do we need one?” She says hesitantly. His eyes widen, he cocks his head to the side. “I was tested after my last partner, I’m clean, and on birth control. You’re a virgin. There’s no point, is there?”

“You have a considerably good point.”

With that, energy rejuvenated a little, he wraps an arm around her body, flipping them over so he’s on top, shadowing her, looming over her, gazing down at every inch of her naked beauty.

“Take your time. I’ll be your safety.”

“I know.” he whispers, a tearful smile making its way onto her face. “Thank you.”

He needn’t say more, because she already knows why she’s being thanked. For her kindness, for making him so comfortable, for accepting the fact he’s still a virgin in his late twenties and, if he’s being honest, has no damn clue what the practicality and reality of sex is. Sure, he’s seen porn. He’s also looked at John’s laptop. But that doesn’t prepare one for when the moment comes. It’s like all of that goes out the window, and he simply remembers the first time he opened a biology textbook at secondary school, pictures of flushed organs staring back at him, desperately waiting to be relieved. That’s what his own coock is like right now, already hard again, virtually pulsating with hunger in his palm. He strokes himself a couple of times, glancing down at Y/N’s wide eyes.

“Are you okay? Can I…”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she chuckles, “whenever you’re ready.”

Now, he thinks. He rubs two digits through her folds, gathering her wetness, enamoured with the way it glistens on his fingertips. Tentatively, he brings his fingers up to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them to get a taste. Eyes rolling into the back of his head, he moans. She’s better than any cup of tea he’s ever had.

His cock slaps against his lower stomach pleadingly, so he grasps it in his hand, and begins to enter her, pushing gently, feeling every flutter of her walls. Her arms fly out, hands grasping his shoulders, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake at the delicious stretch. It’s nothing like they’ve ever felt before.

“Can I move?” He asks, balls deep inside her, their pelvises flush against one another.

“Please.” She all but begs.

Before doing anything else, Sherlock hooks one strong arm around her body, malleable in his hands, and holds her chest against his. Her breasts push into his skin, her nipples gaining friction from the dusting of hair there. Her one hand cups his slender neck, the other, his sharp cheek. Their eyes meet in a fierce gaze of burning intensity, and he begins to move. Slow, calculated, sharp thrusts punctuate her core. With every heavenly stroke, he can feel the ridges in her velvet walls, squeezing around him unwittingly.

“Jesus,” she cries, her clutch increasing.

“Hmm, not quite.”

The smirk in his words is quite literally audible. He’s so cocky, so full of himself, and fuck if she can’t feel another gush of arousal coursing through her, drenching his cock. How does he manage to be so attractive when he’s so dishevelled?

“Is that good?” He asks, unsure.

“So good.”

She brings her legs up, skimming the clenched backs of his thighs, until they wrap around him, drawing his hips into her at a new and improved angle. Heels digging into the base of his spine, he begins to move with a new purpose, his thrusts more passionate as his breath is drained from him by her kisses, his eyes alight with a new flame.

“Oh my God, Sherlock.” She pants, pulling him in for a kiss he greedily returns.

He drives his hips deeper, squeezing his fingertips into her supple waist bruisingly. It’ll be a mark that she belonged to him once, even just for one night. That’s when he reaches that special spongy spot that makes her entire body buckle. She all but screams, pressing into him wholly.

The coil is building, ready to break. He seems to be nearing the edge, too, his member twitching inside her when he buries himself particularly deep. She’s oh so fucking close… She licks into his mouth filthily, desperately clashing her teeth with his, eager for his kisses to tide her over. Silence her. Shifting his supporting hand, he trails one dextrous finger around to circle her clit, adding the faintest pressure for a moment. She mewls as he groans into her hot skin, clawing at him, entirely at his whim. Now he knows where to press, he settled his grip back around her, and draws her in close. This time around, he bends his knees a little more to measure his movements more carefully, ensuring that he ruts up and brushes her sensitive bud with his pelvis, helped by the extra friction of his neatly trimmed pubic hair on every thrust within her, his tip just scraping her g-spot.

“I- Sherlock, please tell me you’re- oh sweet mercy- close.”

He grunts softly in her ear. “So close.”

Their lips meet tenderly, passionately, in what they acknowledge to be a final kiss, moans mixing between them, savoured by the other.

His thighs clench, her legs tighten around his waist, and finally, her sweet walls flutter, squeezing him as she reaches her climax, his not following long after, spilling inside her, painting her soft walls white, marking her.

“Y/N,” he cries in ecstasy as his orgasm reaches him. “Sher…” she repeats, her saving grace as pleasure washes over her entirely.

Their whole bodies wind up pressed together, bound together as one, skin on skin completely, becoming one another.

He lets her down gently, unravelling his grip, unsurprised when their sweaty skin sticks together. Her long legs unfurl, splaying in a butterfly. Sherlock tumbles ungracefully away, somehow landing with a certain gangly elegance on the space of mattress beside her, his arm instinctively flying over to place on her stomach, the skin hot and flushed red. Her chest moves hastily up and down with the thrumming of her heart, while his barely shifts despite his shallow breaths, his white skin glistening in the moonlight.

“Are you okay?” He huffs, turning on his side. “You look pretty fucked out.”

His baby blue eyes train instantly on her nipples, hard in the open air. This is the first notifier, the first inkling she has to feel self conscious, so she draws the sheet up around her as best as she can. Sherlock’s not having any of it, taking a stronghold on her arms, and pulling her until she’s lying on him, naught to separate them.

“I’ve never been this close to anyone physically and y'know.” He hums tiredly. She’s never heard him sound tired before…

She smiles up at him as best she can, “Are you glad?”

He begins to hold her ever closer, squeezing her tighter, feeling every ridge of her body.

“I’m so glad that you were my first, in so many ways.”

Praise from Sherlock is a rarity, and she’ll take it as and when she can, savouring every moment, this time by holding him like a koala, her grip not wavering.

“I’m glad too, Mr Detective.”

He brushes a kiss to her cheek, “As much as I like this, we need to get you cleaned up.”

A supporting arm beneath her bum, he picks her up, and unsteadily ambles into the bathroom.

“I don’t know much about this, but I know you should probably use the toilet, should you want to avoid a UTI, so if you’d like me to leave…”

He sets her down on the loo seat, cupping his hands over his nether regions, and he hurries to grasp for things, until she puts her hand on his arm, squeezing in a conciliatory manner.

“You do remember the camping trip, don’t you? You really don’t have to leave just because I have to pee, you never did before. In fact, you frequently annoyed me with it if you had a particular point to make, steadfastly refusing to leave the bathroom after following me in there when I went to pee. Why does this change anything?”

He shrugs, dropping whatever was in his arms, “It just doesn’t feel the same now, though.”

“Ooo, and now Mr Detective feels things.” She jokes, poking at his ribs.

He recoils, chuckling with her, “Only for you.”

As Y/N washes her hand, Sherlock begins to wrangle with a floorboard, clattering about until he eventually pulls out a small lock box, from which he withdraws a packet of brand new marks-and-spencer's ladies briefs.

“Why the fuck do you have these? Anything you wanna tell me?” she asks, eyes wide.

“John’s idea. He has plenty of girls over here who frequently stay the night, simply a precautionary error.” He takes a beat, gargling with some mouthwash, “they’re clean, new, I just don’t like the idea of you in dirty underwear, and I know how reluctant you are to go without them whenever you’re not in your own bed. I stayed with you enough nights in university to know that.”

Those nights were awfully painful. She’d take the floor, he’d take the bed, and every time she’d have to wash the sheets. He’d sweat and vomit, shake and cry, plead for the pain to be over. He wouldn’t go to hospital, he wouldn’t call his brother, he’d just turn up on her doorstep, high as a kite, almost in tears, knowing he’d gone a little too far. And each time, it was a little farther.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

She takes them from him, and begins to shimmy them up her legs, only prevented by Sherlock moving to grab a handful of her arse.

“Hmm, I like this. Fancy another round?” He smirks.

“I’m too tired, babe. Give me a bit.”

He can see the lazy smile on her face, the tiredness in her pretty eyes, so he wets a flannel, and begins to clean her up with gentle movements between tender kisses.

“How do you know how to do all of this?” She asks, inquisitive more than anything.

“Instinct, I suppose. I never read or learned about it, seeing as I never thought it would happen.”

She snaps the waistband before moving her hands to his waist, leaning up onto her toes to reach him, kissing her softly.

“Look at you now.”

After brushing their teeth in an amicable silence, their pinky fingers overlapping on the porcelain of the sink, he aids her back to the bedroom, settling her on the bed. She has things here: deodorant, toothbrush, moisturiser, and yet somehow she doesn’t have underwear, even after all these years. Perhaps that's one too many things to explain…

With superfluous extravagance, he throws her his shirt, offering her a wry wink. She finds a blush clawing its way onto her cheeks, dumbfounded. It smells like him, just like a forest glade if it was rained on by tea and cigarettes. Maybe he’ll let her keep it as a memory.

In such a short amount of time, she’s learnt that he has a very sensitive neck. Very. A single kiss there has him biting back a moan. A low one at that, considering his deep voice also drops almost an octave when he’s aroused. His nipples are almost as sensitive as his neck, and he rather likes it when she tugs on them unwittingly.

His first orgasm comes quickly, but his refractory period is astonishing, and it takes longer to achieve a second high, long enough to make her come more than once, she assumes, though her first orgasm was mind blowing enough for two. Perhaps that’s just because it’s his first time, but it’s impressive nonetheless.

What’s the point in learning all of this if, once he comes around from his post-orgasmic haze, he’ll pretend like it never happened, in typical Sherlock style?

The shirt, though a small gesture, means a lot, and her vision begins to cloud as she looks down at the black cotton.

“You mean you want me to stay?” She croaks.

Sherlock turns to her from his set of drawers, his face full of apparent obviousness, brows furrowed in that cute bewildered way.

“Of course I want you to stay.” He states, like it’s the plainest thing in the world, like it’s stupid for her to even ask. But she’s silent, and when she says nothing in response, he launches into a long winded explanation: don’t show sentiment. “I- I just mean, i-it’s midnight, I’m not having you out in London alone. You stay with me. Only if you want to as well...”

She nods eagerly, “Yes. Yeah, course I want to stay.”

He all but leaps access the room, jumping onto the bed, before planting a proper smooch on her lips, grinning down at her. He slips into his usual side of the bed, and she takes hers, rolling to look at him.

“Don’t get cold.” He warns, tucking the duvet up around her shoulders. She giggles like a child, that small snort sounding again, prompting Sherlock to press his thumb to her nose like a button. “How are you… feeling?”

“I’m fine bub, really. That bloke doesn’t matter to me at all. Bit of a scumbag if I’m honest. You’re the one I’m with, the one I wanna talk about. How are you feeling? Must’ve been a pretty big blow up with John for you to call me and be so... teary.”

He sighs, crestfallen, “He called me a machine.”

Her gasp pierces the air, her hand flying to his hair, stroking in consolation, cooing senseless reassurances to him. She’s done this innumerable times, but now it feels different, like there’s no barrier.

“He’s done it so many times that it needn’t bother me anymore, but the way he looked at me, like I was this abhorrent monster, especially after the day and the disappointing case we had, it got to me. I hate having feelings.”

“You don’t have to hide them with me, though.”

He hums gently, burying into her chest. “I know. That’s why I treasure you so dearly.”

“That means you also have to trust me, and you’re not going to like what I have to say.” His chest heaves, shifting her whole body. That’s his way of giving in. “Please just talk to John. You know that whenever he leaves, he’ll come back, and try to pretend it never happened. He needs to know you’re human and that he upset you, but also that the case upset you as well. No one’s superhuman, and once you let John in on the fact that you’re not a machine, things between you will be so much easier, because you might agree for once.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He grumbles.

He pulls her into his warmth, hooking her leg around his as he snakes his arms around her back, breathing deeply from the crook of her shoulder. She begins to pepper kisses on his salty skin, savouring the taste with every small swipe of her tongue.

“Your heart’s against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck,” he breaks off with a faint whimper when she sucks a little harder, “I’m falling for your eyes, but they don’t know me yet.”

“Of course they do,” she whispers brokenly, hoarsely, “they’ve always known you.” She swallows thickly, “Does that mean it’s a feeling you’ll forget?”

“No, I don’t think I ever can.”

The silent words that pass between them both are so special, too special to be spoken aloud. ‘Think I’m in love now.’

“Kiss me like you wanna be loved.” He begs.

And really, who is Y/N to deny him? They just stay that way a little while, revelling in their lazy kisses, until she begins to fall asleep. It isn’t the first time she’s fallen asleep in his bed, not by any means, but it’s the first time she’s fallen asleep in his arms. She isn’t mad about it.

“Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in. You were made to keep my body warm.” She smiles into her words, and embeds herself into him, entirely covered by the duvet, spattered in his kisses, safe in his arms. Sherlock feels safe with her legs around him, her fingers in his curls, holding himself against her. Amicable silence is how they drift off, Peaceful.

John re-enters 221B at a respectable hour. He got a fair amount of sleep on Greg’s sofa, having no girlfriend in the picture right now, but not enough to deal with Sherlock just yet. Not before his coffee. He expects to see Sherlock sitting in the exact same spot as when he left, perhaps just with a refill of tea, his fingers still steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed yet wide awake. Instead, he arrives at a seemingly empty, considerably clean flat, with no Sherlock in sight. Perhaps the unsleeping man must actually be asleep, he thinks, so he quietens down, and toes off his shoes before wandering farther into the flat. Even if the man does piss him off extraordinary amounts, perhaps he should just check he’s okay…

He gives the bedroom door a quiet rap, listening in momentarily before pushing it open. Frankly, he’d rather have found Sherlock with a cigarette in hand and the whole flat torn to shreds for the level of surprise he gets upon reaching the bed. His first idea is to scream bloody murder, but that might annoy Mrs Hudson, and upon stepping closer, even in the sliver of daylight through the curtains, he sees the duvet riding down a little. The last thing in the world he ever thought he’d see: Sherlock in naught but boxers pressed against a half naked woman, his palm splayed on her bare thigh. Sherlock? Spooning? It seems so, his entire body pressed to this woman. John feels himself go rigid, his feet glued to the floor, his gaze unmoving from shock.

It takes his phone to buzz in his pocket to get him moving, and when he does, all he tries to do is balance precariously on his tip toes in a wry attempt to get a birds-eye view of the whole thing. He’s not disappointed, or disturbed, once he does, though, his army agility proving useful. Sherlock’s hand is holding her, fingers entwined, just next to her chest. He wonders how comfortable it is, but if they’re staying this way, it can’t be too bad. Maybe all Sherlock needed to loosen up was a good shag.

She’s wearing his shirt, too; Sherlock’s black dress shirt from the previous day. And Sherlock? He never seeps in anything less than a full set of pyjamas, he’s weird like that .

This girl begins to stir, her lips parting gently, small hums escaping. Next, her eyelids flutter, and her hair shifts on the pillow. He didn’t make any noise, did he? John was specifically careful not to, just in case. He doesn’t fancy Sherlock’s wrath just yet.

One eye opens, and she whispers, almost incoherently, “Hi John.”

How she knows his name and who he is, he’s not at all sure, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this face in his life. The hair is familiar, and maybe, if she were more awake, he’d recognise her smile, but he’s never seen a woman in Sherlock’s company beside Molly Hooper. Speaking of…

Before he can even say anything, though, before he can ask who she is or if she wants tea or if she date-raped his roommate, she’s mumbling, and detaching her hand from Sherlock’s, rolling over. Dumbfounded, John just stands there and watches her cuddle into Sherlock’s chest, her arms wrapping around his torso like second nature. Even in his sleep, not consciously thinking about his actions, he grips her back - one hand resting just above her bum, and buries his nose into her neck.

John can’t help but smile to himself. Maybe their fight was for the best if Sherlock now has a girlfriend, someone he turned to for solace. So, he grasps for the top of the duvet and pulls it up over both of their figures, reaching their shoulders, and leaves, staring wistfully for a brief moment at the seemingly happy couple.

The weight of the duvet of what startles Sherlock, though, stirring him a little, inviting him to him against Y/N’s skin, smiling with eyes barely open. This is really nice, he thinks to himself, not waking up alone.

She smiles back blearily, and in her morning voice, whispers to him, “Kiss me Mr Detective.”

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magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics · 3 years

Text

Fangirl, Interrupted - Becca’s Saturday

Summary: Have you ever felt like you’re too far up your fandoms that you’re not really living your real life? Well, that. But more.

Word Count: 1,817

Pairings: Dean x reader, Sherlock x reader

Warnings: You’re not gonna like it. Sudden fandom changes, bit of smut which is not really smutty, lazy writing, suicidal attempt, usage of drugs and alcohol, OOC scenes.

Original A/N: Because of who I am, I like to exaggerate everything. With that being said, let me tell you that this is how I felt for many years, with multiple fandoms. I have lived a tortous life, therefore I was always seeking to live somewhere else. Almost all of my childhood and teenage years were an on-going loop between my fake life inside my fandoms and my real life. I barely remember anything now outside that make-pretend life I created for myself. Now I am living my life, in a way that I can no longer hide inside that fake life. Call it what you want. Anxiety is coming back to me, fyi, and I tried to hide there but I just can’t. This is my way of expressing it. The Girl, Interrupted theme is because I watched it yesterday after performing Lisa’s monologue at my acting class - a way of giving therapy to myself through art. Anyway, I hope you don’t read this fic. I didn’t like it at all, but I feel the need, nonetheless, to share it somewhere. To have evidence that I went through that. Probably, someone out there has too. Idk.

New A/N: I wrote this MONTHS ago, long before I got diagnosed, and I got scared of posting it because it could be too depressing. But I hate leaving drafts all alone so here goes nothing.

Have you ever confused a dream with life? Or stolen something when you have the cash? Have you ever been blue? Or thought you were moving while sitting still? Maybe I was just crazy… Maybe it was loneliness…

“Put her in restraints!” A woman yelled. “Withdraw blood… Give her five milligrams of Valium, IV”

“Turn her head so she doesn’t aspirate,” another woman advised. I felt my head being turned by a pair of terribly warm hands.

I was attacked. I had been attacked.

“You should check my hand. There’s no bones in it anymore…”

“What were you thinking?” The first woman asked.

“I was trying to save the world…” I replied, “Don’t worry, you’ll thank me later.”

Sometimes it’s hard for me to stay in one place.

“Hey,” I opened my eyes at the familiar voice. The image at first was blurry, but I could recognize the colors of their flannel shirts. My back was killing me, and my arms felt numb. “(Y/N) are you okay?”

“Yo, sweetheart! Wake up!” A rough voice called out. I could see his red flannel.

Red flannel. Dean was wearing a red flannel, and Sam had the green one. That could only mean one thing…

I looked down at my own clothes, I was wearing a brown flannel.

I smiled childishly, and my vision finally cleared. Both men were staring at me, worried. “I’m home,” is all I could say.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, Sam smiled back at me.

“Yes, you are,” he said, “you’re home with us. Where else would you be?”

“At a hospital or some shit,” I replied.

“We don’t do no hospitals, sweetheart,” Dean reminded me from afar.

“Did we get him? The djinn?” I inquired, with wide eyes.

“Yup,” Sam nodded.

Dean appeared back again, handing me a cold beer. It was closed. Sam took my hand and guided it to my forehead, so I could press the bottle to my forehead. I was probably wounded there too.

“We Jafar-ed the shit out of him,” Dean snorted. Sam inhaled profoundly, as an attempt to not slap his brother. “I Jas-min that we almost didn’t make it…” Dean continued, “but enough Abu me,” he giggled, “how was your daydream, sweetheart? Where’d Iago?”

“Please, stop,” Sam begged. Dean tried to argue but Sam was already looking back at me. “But do tell us where did you go?”

“I…”

“Where did you go?”

“(Y/N)” a strong light blinded me for a second. I suddenly felt something in my eyes, pulling them open. “(Y/N), we’re calling you!” The voice chanted. “Hello, Earth requires Ms (Y/N)...”

“Wha-what?” I stuttered, pulling away from the light.

The scenery had changed. I was no longer at a motel room with awful wallpaper, but instead at a very nice living room, though the wallpaper was still awful.

“Are you okay?” The man that had been calling my name asked. He kneeled in front of me.

“Are you real?” I tilted my head to the side, and he smiled tenderly.

“As real as your nose,” he said and booped my nose. His touch was soft and warm.

“What happened?”

“You fainted,” another voice answered. I looked back, only to see the familiar figure of Sherlock sitting on his desk, typing furiously on his computer. “I told you not to get too close to the evidence, but did you listen? No, why?” He gazed back, “Because ‘oh Sherlock, don’t be so stern, it’s just a flower bouquet!’ but I was right, as usual.”

“Let her breath,” Watson commanded. “We both smelled it too and nothing bad happened.”

“Yes, but so did the police officers… All male, I must remind you” Sherlock snapped. “The flowers were sent to a woman who, where is she now? Oh, yes, DEAD!”

“I don’t get it,” I interfered.

“I suspect the flowers are poisoned with some sort of chemical that only affects women, by reacting to their production of hormones.” Sherlock informed me.

“Right… And what does that have to do with your intoxication?” The female voice asked again.

I suddenly snapped back to the hospital. I was laying in a hospital bed, with lots of tubles connected to me. There was a woman in white, sitting by my side with a notepad on her lap.

“Well, obviously I’ve been affected… It’s the flowers, you see…” I spoke.

“Flowers? What flowers?” The nurse, she was a nurse, asked again.

“The poisoned flowers!”

“Do you see them now?” She inquired.

“Of course not!”

“No?”

The djinn stood behind her. “Say no,” he said with an ominous voice.

“No,” I obeyed.

The nurse looked behind her and the djinn disappeared instantly. “Are you seeing anything out of the ordinary at the moment?”

“No, why would I? I’m not crazy,”

“At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were…” Dean sighed. He was sitting by my side, in bed, and was connecting his phone to the charger. “I am a little crazy too, you know?”

“Oh, yeah?” I trembled.

“Yeah,” he muttered and finally let go off his phone. He turned to look at me for a second before cuddling me. I was the small spoon, he was shirtless. “I’m crazy about you.”

“Smooth,” I replied sheepishly. I could feel the ghost of his arms around me… Ghost, because I couldn’t really feel him. He was hot, yet cold as if air was blowing over my skin.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked.

“I am.”

I wasn’t. I’m not okay.

“Good night, sweetheart,” he whispered and pecked my shoulder. Again, I felt it but not quite.

“Dean?”

“Huh?” I closed my eyes, not wanting to see what would happen after I said what I wnated to say.

“I feel like I’m still inside the djinn’s daydream,” I confessed.

Dean sat up and fixed a lose strand of hair that was falling over my eyes.

“You’re not inside a djinn’s daydream…” He said, calmly.

“How can you tell?” I asked, still not opening my eyes.

“Because djinns don’t exist, that’s why,” he said.

I finally opened my eyes. Black locks and blue eyes were all I could see for a moment.

“Djinns are mythological, and that is all…” Sherlock continued. I could hear his voice turning from Dean’s to his own. “I understand that maybe the toxins from the flowers could affect your perception of life, but there is nothing to fear. The effects will pass and you’ll be good as new.”

“I don’t feel good as new.”

“Clearly,” he grunted.

Noticing my state, he decided to go a little further from his usual behaviour. He pressed his head to my arm… I was still laying on my side, as if I was still being the small spoon.

“I will be here, by your side, as long as you let me.”

My heart fluttered, but not in love but rather in pain.

“I can’t control that.”

“The pills are having a positive effect on her now, we can get her to be conscious for a bit longer than before…” I heard a voice coming from the hall.

“What is that?” I asked. Sherlock tilted his head.

“What?” He furrowed, “I don’t hear anything.”

“Well, I do.”

I got up from bed and opened the door. At the other side of it was a hospital hall rather than Sherlock’s. All white, with blinding white lights. The nurse was talking to what I assumed was a doctor.

I felt like I would faint again.

Sherlock got up as well and dragged me back to the bed, closing the door behind us.

“You know what could help?” He smirked. “I know… Because I know you.”

He got me back in bed, facing up to the ceiling. I was about to talk, when I felt him pulling down my pijama shorts. A sigh left my lips, as I felt his tongue rubbing my clit in circles. I closed my eyes, filled with pleasure, and tried to keep it quiet so neither Mrs Hudson nor Watson could hear us.

“Come here,” I begged after a while.

I opened my eyes and saw Dean crawling up to my face. His tattoo was covered in sweat and his hair was ruffled.

“You thought I would just leave it there, sweetheart?” He flirted and, without a warning, he thrust inside me. “You feel good today… Tight, and so wet for me…”

I moaned, getting lost in his green eyes. I wanted to kiss him, but I couldn’t.

I didn’t even feel his weight over me.

I blinked.

TARDIS.

I blinked again.

Dean was looking at me, dumbfounded as he made love to me.

I shook my head and closed my eyes again, letting my body fall back into the pillows as I succumbed to the pleasure he… they were giving me. I called both of their names in between whispers until I climaxed.

I sighed and opened my eyes.

I was in my room. Darkness surrounded me. I was alone, and my fingers were still between my legs.

I wiped them quickly with the bed sheets and took my phone to googled Dean Winchester’s name, only to find out that he was not being looked at by the US government, but rather a fictional character. Not only that, but I saw pictures of him in the most intimate moments… Moments I could recall from living them with him.

I clicked on one of his pictures.

Jensen Ackles… Married.

I clicked on Sam’s.

Married.

I clicked on Castiel’s.

Married.

They were all married. Click by click I undercovered the lie I was living in.

“But what about Sher?” I thought to myself.

I googled him. Fictional character, based on the books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

There he was, my Sherlock, next to others who had also played him.

“I thought I was in a hospital,” I whispered.

“Maybe it’s just your unconscious mind asking to be treated by a professional.” Castiel’s voice spoke.

“Maybe it’s because that is where you’re going,” Sam gestured to the side of my bed. A bottle of vodka laid there empty, next to empty sets of aspirins.

“Is there an end to this?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Jim Moriarty spoke from the darkness. “But aren’t you having fun?”

“What if I die?” I insisted.

“You won’t,” Sherlock said, “you still got enough energy to call an ambulance for yourself.”

“Please do,” Watson begged softly.

I grabbed my phone and dialed the number.

“I need an ambulance…”

“We’ll see you on the other side, sweetheart.” Dean smiled with a glimpse of sadness.

“I love you, guys.”

No tags for this one.

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consult-sherlockholmes · 2 years

Note

the way you talk about having control over drug usage reminds me of the way i talk about having control over food

(which is a bit not good seeing as im anorexic)

I do not understand what you are trying to insinuate. However, sorry for your troubles.

#rp #roleplay #johnlock rp #sherlock rp #johnlock roleplay #sherlock roleplay #tw ed #druglock #shezza #sherlocks drug use #tw ana mention

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thenewdaysalreadyhere · 3 years

Text

How Movies and TV Shows Saved My Life

trigger warning: suicide, depression, emotional abuse, mentions of ED and PTSD

if you are uncomfortable or are triggered by any of these subject please scroll past for your own safety

My name is Ophelia and I was diagnosed with clinical depression and general anxiety disorder when I was in seventh grade, aka. 12-13 years old.

When I started my freshman year of high school, I had no friends. I was one of three girls from my old school going to a rich, private, all girls, high school on two scholarships. So, in short, there was a large amount of pressure riding on my shoulders.

Within a month or two of freshman year, I had become part of a friend group, largely made up of overzealous theatre kids, and had entered a “relationship” with one of them. (Relationship is used loosely because we were basically friends with an added label.) This situation very quickly became toxic.

In the three months I was in that relationship, I was being emotionally abused. I hadn’t reaized what was happening until a month after I had broken it off but I still show signs of PTSD over a year after that relationship ended.

This boy had, on multiple occasions, threatened me with suicide, pressured me into losing weight while calling me demeaning nicknames such as Little Miss Creampuff, and never failed to tell me about his other romantic pursuits at every convenience.

Not only was this relationship traumatizing, the aftermath proved to be less than ideal.

Upon telling some of my closest friends what had happened, they either had one or two responses. The first being that I was overreacting and could not call his actions abuse. The second was that they would continue to remain friends with him as they did not want to choose sides.

While the first response hurt, because my judgement was being questioned, the second response is what bothered me the most. In telling me that they were not going to choose sides, they were practically telling me that they either didn’t believe me or were still willing to be friends with someone who had emotionally destroyed their other friend.

Months passed by and my emotional state withered away. My depression wasn’t new, it was just getting worse. As time went by, I was feeling increasingly overwhelmed until finally, in late May, the weekend before school was letting out for the summer, I was admitted to an Inpatient Facility. Basically, I was admitted to a psych ward, specifically meant for minors.

I stayed there for a week, and was immediately admited to PHP, or Partial Hospitalized Program, which meant I would be in therapy for five days a week, five hours a day. It was during this time that I was told that I was borderlining an ED, and Eating Disorder, and needed to get my eating habits under control before I was sent to a program specifically meant for recovering EDs. Eventually, I was moved down to and IOP group, or an Intensive Outpatient Program, which was therapy three days a week for two hours a day. By the time the school year was starting up again, I was moved down to Individualized Therapy.

Which the steps down created a comfort for my parents that I was getting better, it wasn’t what was truly happening. Instead, I was becoming more avoidant of my mental health all together. I would participate in my therapy sessions at a surface level, but would never let it cross the border of being truly emotionally vulnerable.

I spent my days binge watching TV and movies. It was a form of escapism as my love for literature, writing, and many forms of art had dissolved with my passion as my depression furthered. The main shows I would watch consisted of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, New Girl, Criminal Minds, and Sherlock (BBC).

Sherlock was the first show to start my change in perspective. In the fourth season, Sherlock, while on a large amount of drugs, goes on a walk with a girl who he has yet to discover is his sister. He very quickly, however, knows that the girl is suicidal. He shares words that practically punched my in the stomach.

“Taking your own life, interesting expression. Taking it from who? Once it’s over, it’s not you who’ll miss it. Your own death is something that happens to everyone else. Your life is not your own, keep your hands off it.”

Like many people, my initial reaction was to cry. Tht was the first time I had cried in months. Still, I avoided that scene and chose to see it as being told that I am not living for myself, instead for everyone else.

The second peice in media that truly seved my life was Dead Poets Society (1989). I have a deep love for this movie, as is obvious from the theme of my blog, but truly, it has made a substantial difference in how I live.

During my first time watching the movie, I had absolutely no idea what to expect. My mother had watched it but forgot what had happened, but encouraged me because she remembered it being a good movie.

I fell in love with Neil Perry’s character. The thing I often find most attractive in someone is that they are passionate about something (particularly something that isn’t dangerous or harmful to others). Neil had a light, a fire that was always burning. He didn’t just act, he performed. He put his heart and soul into what he loved. His death hurt me in a way I cannot explain.

I’ve never had to go through to loss of someone to suicide, and Neil’s was the closest thing I had to it. When you’re suicidal, you often ponder what would happen if you went through with it, especially if you also have anxiety.

Neil’s suicide brought those worries to life for me.

I can’t explain it but my mindset changed. I stopped living my life entirely for other’s pleasure and instead starting setting my own boundaries for what I could and couldn’t do. I told myself that it’s okay to be selfish. It’s okay to put your needs before others’ because you aren’t going to be able to help people if you’re dead.

Everyone has different wake up calls and starts to their healing process. Mine was found in TV and movies.

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possiblyimbiassed · 4 years

Text

The code to open the heart

Inspired by @thepersianslipper‘s comment to Arwel W Jones’ set photos from Irene Adler’s house in ASiB (X), I took to re-watch ASiB and came to realise something about Irene’s security arrangements that might be significant. Her security measures to protect her phone are strict and deadly, but still she wants Sherlock to find out the password to her safe:

A little bit strange, isn’t it? Why would Irene deliberately challenge the famous detective to break the code, even giving him hints about it, if her life depends on the safety of her precious phone? (And if this was a trap set up by Moriarty, why would Sherlock fall in it without suspicion?)

(Continued under the cut)

We know already from TBB that Sherlock is very good at code-breaking:

Later he also easily breaks into Major Barrymore’s computer in THoB. But some very similar lines to the ones in TBB appear with Culverton Smith in TLD (hmm...):

With a metaphorical reading, however, we can try to make certain assumptions and see where it leads us. If we assume that a) phone = heart, b) Irene represents Sherlock’s libido, and c) Culverton is a (distorted) mirror of John, some pieces of the puzzle may fall into place. We can also try to figure out where d) Sherlock’s brain’s position is in all this.

As for Culverton’s phone (= John’s heart), we’ve been discussing it before (X).

Irene’s phone, at first, has a double protection; the phone itself is password protected, and it’s placed in a safety box which only opens with the right code. In both cases there’s a (different) code that Sherlock has to break. Since Irene hints heavily to Sherlock about the code to her safe, and later leaves her phone to him so he can try to break its password, it very much seems like Irene wants Sherlock to take the phone and open it, even if it at first seems like she doesn’t want him to have it. (Later on we also learn that this plot is all set up by Jim Moriarty, in order to break another code inside Irene’s phone, to dismantle the government’s anti-terrorist operation).

Metaphorically, this would mean that Sherlock’s newly found sex drive actually wants him to open his heart, even though there are strong barriers against it.

When the CIA (Central Intelligence Agency) enters and forces Sherlock to break the barrier to his heart, it’s like his own brain wants this to happen under controlled circumstances. Sherlock has to open the safe and hand his heart over to his brain, his super-ego, or else John (another metaphor for Sherlock’s heart) will be shot by Mr Archer (a hint that he will be hit by Cupido’s dangerous arrow, in my opinion: X).

The code, in this case, turns out to be Irene’s measurements, which would metaphorically mean the size of Sherlock’s libido. This might not be so controversial to Sherlock, since it only means that he would have to recognise that he does have a sex drive; Sentiment still isn’t necessarily involved.

This could also mean a bit what Sherlock concludes in TAB: that in order to solve a new case (a possible romantic relationship with John), he first needs to solve an old one (why little Sherlock abandoned Sentiment in the first place).

In the case of the second code, however, we all know what happened in the end; Sherlock did break the password and figured out that it was all about him, Sherlock:

But then he immediately handed it over to the government (= Mycroft = Sherlock’s brain) without even looking into the content. The CIA agent standing guard outside the plane full of dead people kind of accentuates this fact, I believe, even if the code-breaking seems to have happened at Mycroft’s place. And Sherlock took the opportunity to once again dismiss all the value of emotions:

In the end, he only recovered the text messages from Irene, as a memory of the case; the phone (= heart) itself was stripped of its compromising content. It’s not until TFP that Sherlock takes us deeper into his childhood traumas and the possible reasons for him repressing emotions.

I’d also like to point out that none of the events with Irene above are actually described on John’s blog; the whole case is supposedly under strict regulation by The Offical Secrets Act - with a few exceptions, apparently: Sherlock appearing naked wrapped in a sheet at Buckingham Palace, Irene’s texting to Sherlock (and John’s own speculations about it), Irene being “gone”, John being “taken” to Battersea power station to talk to Irene (now alive), Sherlock’s x-raying a phone, and the fact that the country “was nearly brought to its knees” by Irene, who was then put under a witness protection scheme. But most the events in ASiB are still not even referred to on the blog; there’s no write-up of the case as such.

Which means that much of what we see in ASiB might actually be Sherlock’s internal version of the events, while analysing them in his Mind Palace. And he might use the events to analyse something quite different than the actual case as such. I’m speculating here, of course. But the whole ‘Vatican cameos’ scene where Sherlock and Irene knock out the CIA agents in a very James Bond-like fashion, and where Sherlock then shoots off a gun (quite unnecessarily risking arrest - hmm...) to call the police...

...makes me think that this isn’t actually ‘real’, but rather Sherlock’s own fanciful wishful thinking about how the case could have played out for him to appear sexy and achieve maximum impression on John. ;)

And the scenario where Irene - together with Sherlock, whom she has drugged - solves the case of the hiker, the boomerang and the back-firing car, could be Sherlock’s representation about what’s happening to him. We see Irene (= Sherlock’s libido) take over the whole explanation while Sherlock is in a drug-induced state.

His libido explains to him that not only the driver’s car back-fired, but the hiker also got hit and killed by his own device - a boomerang - backfiring on him. I seem to recall people have meta-ed this long ago, to explain that the driver represents John’s frustrated sexual experience with Sarah on their vacation in New Zeeland, and the hiker represents Sherlock’s own attitude backfiring on himself. At any rate, Sherlock is clearly on drugs while he envisions this, and later we see John and Mycroft talk about ‘danger nights’, so it could well be that Sherlock was high and experienced his bodily ‘urges’ taking over for a while, in a state when he could no longer repress them.

I’m sure much of this has been discussed in metas before, even if I don’t remember exactly which ones for the moment, but I still think it’s worth a second glance on it. Regarding further significance of code-breaking in BBC Sherlock, I’ve also tried to explore this in some earlier metas (X and X).

@ebaeschnbliah @raggedyblue @gosherlocked @sarahthecoat @sagestreet

#metaphorical reading #codes in sherlock

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lapuslazulli · 4 years

Link

Chapters: 41/41 Fandom: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Victor Trevor, Mycroft Holmes, Victor Trevor's Father, Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: Angst, Drama, Family Issues, Unilock, Viclock, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Mycroft being a good big brother, albeit as meddlesome as usual, Sexual (re)awakening, Classical Music, Chemistry, Cardigan Kink, A deliciously slow spiral into hell, Masturbation, Autism Spectrum, Bullying, Rugby, Hurt/Comfort, Serious Injuries, Romance, Sherlock Whump, Pining, Insecure Sherlock, Bisexuality, The Adventure of the Gloria Scott, Sherlock in Love, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Victor Trevor, Friends to Lovers, Protective Mycroft, Psychological Trauma, Past Sexual Abuse, Christmas, lack of holiday spirit, Parent expectations, Love, Cambridge University - Freeform, Essex girls, Tragedy, Young Love, Reluctant wankage, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Sherlock's Violin, Sulking, Late nights in the lab, Nerd pines over jock, Sexual Identity, Social Awkwardness, Sex ed by Mycroft Holmes, Suicide, Homophobia, Sherlock's Past, Well-chiseled abs, Surveillance, Drugs, ASBO dog, Clubbing, rollercoaster!Sherlock, Mycroft is a twatwaffle, Mycroft continues to astound, and not in a good way, Don't copy to another site Series: Part 1 of Nothing Made Me Summary:

When Sherlock met Victor, and what happened next. A backstory that explains why caring truly may not be an advantage. This follows ACD canon and ignores BBC season 4, allowing the two of them to meet while at University.

#Fanfic #AO3 Link

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onlyfangz · 5 years

Text

Due to the new Pokemon game

Since Scottish people and culture seems to be coming into the spotlight recently, here’s a few things you should know (Alternative title: Facts About Scotland):

- We are “Scots”, with one ‘t’, not two, and we’re definitely not “Scotch”, which is considered rude to call someone in most parts, and in others are considered a slur. Scotch refers to Scottish products. See: Scotch Wiskey, Scotch Tablet, etc., Singular is “Scot”. So, “He is a Scot.”

- You don’t need to tell us that you don’t understand our language. It’d be like if I saw a post wrote in Italian and I said, “Lol what does this say”. Like obviously, I don’t speak Italian, no need to comment on it.

- You also don’t need to tell us that you do understand our language. Again, it’d be like me reading a post in German (let’s pretend I can speak more than a few words in German for a sec) and I said, “Oh wow! I understand this!”

- Don’t try and write or speak in our language. Chances are no-one will have any clue of what you’re talking about.

- We don’t say “fockin”. Nobody says fockin.

- Or “fookin”.

- It’s just fucking. Fuckin’ if you must.

- Scots has a lot of intricate rules. Sometimes two words or variations means the same thing, but can only be used in certain contexts. “Ye” and “Ya” mean “You”, but where “Ye cannae dae that, ya dobberhied,” makes sense, “Ya cannae dae that, ye dobberhied” does not.

- We are not brash, rude, crass, uncivilized, barbaric, constantly drunk, angry, unintelligent, etc.,

- Yes we do have TV, it was a Scottish person who invented it.

- In fact, you’ve got Scottish people to thank for for: pedal bikes, the pneumatic tyre, the steam engine, penicillin, the pemalis wave energy converter, the hot blast oven, hollow pipe drainage, the telephone, postage stamps, postcards, universal time, the first ever english book on surgery, sherlock holmes, peter pan, modern economics, modern sociology, hypnotism, modern geology, the discovery of saturn’s rings, the decimal point, the Gregorian telescope, the discoveries of the properties of carbon dioxide, the pyroscope, identifying the nucleus in cells, the ground work for the incandescent lightbulb (thought thomas edison did that on his own, did you?), criminal fingerprinting, the very first cloned mammal, the world’s first tractor beam, the shot put, the hammer throw, curling, ice hockey, the saline drip, the hypodermic syringe, understanding transplant rejection, using the ultrasound to diagnose, identifying the mosquito as the carrier of malaria, the typhoid vaccine, discovering insulin, the HPV vaccine, fire engines, the discovery of TB treatment, the development of beta-blocker drugs, the glasgow coma scale, the glasgow anxiety scale, the glasgow depression scale, the fridge, the toaster, flushing toilets, the waterproof macintosh jackets, the kaleidoscope, the lawnmower, the electric clock, the bank of england and france, the game grand theft auto, forbes magazine, the new york herald, and paintball.

- So the question isn’t does Scotland have (x), it’s do you?

- Glasgow is pronounced “Glass-go” or “Glaz-go”, not “Glass-cow”.

- Edinburgh is pronounced “Ed-in-bruh”.

- Loch is pronounced with a soft “ck” noise, not with a hard “ck.” (It’s not “Lock”.)

- No I haven’t seen the Loch Ness Monster, I don’t even live near Loch Ness.

- Nessie isn’t the only Loch Monster. She has a sister, Morag.

- Now for a round of “Is it true?”

- “Does Scotland hate England?” A lot of us do, some of us don’t.

- “Does Scotland hate Ireland?” A lot of us don’t. I haven’t met anyone who does.

- “Are Scotland and Ireland the same?” No.

- “Do Scottish people type in their accents?” No, we type in our language.

- “Does Haggis taste good?” Depends who you ask. My personal answer - yes, I like it. Chances are you won’t.

- “Is Haggis made out of sheep guts?” No. It’s made out of sheep liver, heart, and lungs. It’s not disgusting, it’s just animal product and you need to chill out about it.

- “Are Celts Scottish?” Celts are Scottish, and also Irish, Welsh, Cornish, Breton, and Manx.

- Celtic and Celtic are two different things in Scotland. One has a hard “Ck” noise at the beginning of it, but the other has a “S” noise (Sell-tic). K-ell-tic refers to people, Sell-tic refers to a football club.

- Not all of Scotland is rough. A lot of it is actually quite nice.

- The Highlands are not mystical. It’s nice scenery if you like a bunch of mountains, but there’s not much going on up there.

- If someone is the King/Queen of Scotland, it means that they’re King/Queen of the land, but if someone is the King/Queen of Scots, it means they’re King/Queen of Scottish People. It’s a very hard distinction, and the reason why you’ll hear “Mary, Queen of Scots”, “Robert The Bruce, King of Scots”, but not “Queen Elizabeth II, Queen of Scots”.

- A lot of people don’t like the monarchy, so don’t ask us if we’ve ever had tea with the Queen or whatever you like to ask.

- Even though we’re working on it, we are still British. So if a Scottish person tells you they’re British they know what they’re talking about and do not need you to “correct” them. Britain refers to the four nations: Scotland, England, Wales, and N. Ireland.

- Britain has no culture. You’re thinking of English culture.

- There is a British accent. 43 of them to be exact. None of them are more British than the other.

- The North of England gets treated as badly as all of Scotland by the South of England.

- Scotland did not vote for Brexit, but if all of Scotland voted against something, and all of London voted for something, London would win by an estimated 3 million margin. (And that’s off population alone, numbers would vary due to voter eligibility.)

- Scotland is heavily liberal, with free college, free health care, is the only country in the world to give free sanitary products in schools and other public places, and is the only country in the world where LGBTI+ education is mandatory and part of the curriculum. (Other countries do give LGBTI+ education, but in no country is it mandatory.)

- In conclusion: don’t be an asshole.

#scotland #scottish #scottish facts #pokemon

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autolenaphilia · 4 years

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A review of BBC Sherlock

BBC Sherlock is a terrible show. I’m not the first to say so, and I’m certainly repeating things here that other people have said, like Hbomberguy, who did a flawed but mostly fine critical look at the show. But I still think I have some original ideas to bring to the table, and even if this essay is long by itself, it is probably more approachable case against Sherlock than Hbomb’s long if compelling video (which I liked but don’t entirely agree with. He for example criticizes the show for not playing fair with its mysteries, which I think is fine for a Sherlock Holmes adaptation to do, because the original stories don’t “play fair” either. They pre-date that convention in mystery writing)

The main problem with the show, lies with its main character, Sherlock. The tv series had a problem with hero worshipping Sherlock and having an excessive and uncritical focus on him. The show revolved around the main character of Sherlock Holmes in a way that the original Holmes stories didn’t. Everything in the writing and the world it created was about Sherlock, and how cool he is.

The show makes airs of being a character study, but it is not interested in doing the work required for actually being that. Ultimately, Sherlock is the hero, and for Moffat & Gatiss this means he can do no wrong, even when he is wrong.

Sherlock is an arrogant jerk, being not only rude but outright cruel at times. He does this all the time, including to people who are supposedly his friends, like Watson. The good doctor actually gets the worst of it. In the show’s supposed “adaptation” of “The Hound of the Baskervilles”, Holmes drugs Watson without his consent or knowledge, just to test the drug out.

The show never reckons with all the cruelties the hero commits to his supposed friends. He never apologizes, nor is he confronted with his behaviour, never decides or is compelled to change. Instead Watson and co. remain loyal to the very end. He thinks it is permissible for him to act that way because he is a genius, and alarmingly, the very writing of the show seems to support him in that line of thought.

This is not at all due to the show reflecting the original short stories. The Holmes depicted in the canonical stories can be rude and inconsiderate to others, but seldom outright cruel. Compare the scene in Sherlock described above with a similar scene in The Devil’s Foot. In that short story, Holmes also tests out a drug he found on Watson, but everything else is different. Holmes explains the situation to Watson beforehand, asks if he wants to take part, and exposes himself for the same dangers as his companion. When things turn out badly, Holmes even earnestly apologizes for putting both Watson and himself in danger.

The Canonical stories weren’t afraid to make Holmes fallible either. He is a hero, but one with faults that can make mistakes and loses. Good examples are A Scandal in Bohemia and the charming anti-racist story The Adventure of the Yellow Face.

The original version of Holmes is genuinely heroic. The BBC show has in comparison a very warped view of heroism, being the hero means Sherlock is never wrong, even when he is wrong. The hero is a special person, who can’t obey ordinary rules. It feeds into a form of wish fulfilment. A male power fantasy (and this type of hero is always a man) where you are very clever and being that clever means you can mistreat people as you like.

This focus on Sherlock himself can also be seen in the diminished role given to the supporting cast. Martin Freeman’s Watson is used well in the first episode, as the normal person who acts as our introduction to the strange mind and world of Sherlock (the first episode is maybe the strongest of the entire show). This captures how he is used in the books and does that even without the intimacy of Watson’s first person narration. But that is all we get, he is a non-entity in the rest of the show. He doesn’t do much in the episodes that follow, and basically only exists to marvel and be shocked at how weird Sherlock is, and to be abused by him.

Mycroft exists mainly to provide missions for Sherlock and get him out of legal problems. There is an original female character, Molly Hooper, but the sexism of the writers means she matters even less. Her whole existence is determined by being a fangirl who has a crush on Sherlock, yet is treated horribly by him.

The show’s dubious idea of a hero is why the show has to make Moriarty into an overarching villain, who is behind pretty much every other villain they meet. Their Holmes is too important for ordinary crimes, he is a superhero who can only face a supervillain of equal stature, so Moriarty is changed into that type of villain.

Certainly the original Moriarty has traits that predicts later supervillains, but ultimately he is just a crime boss, albeit a very intelligent and dangerous one. And making everything about this epic mind duel between Holmes and Moriarty contradicts the tone of the original stories. The cases Holmes takes on in the canon seldom concern more than the people directly involved and often don’t even involve murders. Holmes occasionally takes on bigger things, but the stakes are seldom world threatening. In comparison to the Sherlock show, the lack of empty bombast and faux-epicness in the original stories are very charming.

The character of Moriarty is played very energetically by Andrew Scott, but ultimately he is boring, because his motivations are simply that he is insane and gay. I’m not kidding. Moriarty wants to play mind games with Sherlock, because he is attracted to Sherlock and his intelligence. This, as bizarre as it sounds, literally makes most of the plot of this show caused by Sherlock being attractive .

(Hilariously, they later retcon this to Moriarty being mind controlled by Sherlock’s evil sister. Her motivation, incidentally, is that she is angry because Sherlock didn’t play with her as children.)

It is also unconnected to what Holmes actually does. In the original story, the reason Moriarty is interested in Holmes is because Sherlock was able to figure out that Moriarty is the head of a criminal organization, which is what makes him dangerous to Moriarty. In Sherlock, Moriarty knows of and admires Sherlock from before the first episode even happens and Holmes only figures out who Moriarty is later. It is treated as natural fact in this world that Sherlock is so awesome that people admire and are obsessed with him, without him even having to do anything that proves it.

I can see the appeal of shipping heroes and villains with sexual tension behind them, like Holmes and Moriarty in many versions. But when the hero-villain relationship in this case just reinforces the show’s excessive infatuation with its main character, it turns the whole thing distasteful for me (and that is not getting into the problems with coding your villain as insane and gay in general, as fun as this kind of villain can be).

I can also see the usefulness in setting up Moriarty by having him involved in crimes before he is actually introduced. The original stories don’t really do it, so Moriarty comes out of nowhere in The Final Problem. The Granada Tv show by Jeremy Brett did it by having Moriarty be behind The Red-Headed League case, and that worked fine.

But the way BBC Sherlock just drains the show of any interest in the villains except Moriarty. They are just Moriarty’s henchpeople, their motivation simply becomes that Moriarty pays them. The reason why the Granada version worked so well is that the villains in the orginal short story about The Red-Headed League were almost non-entities, the sole interesting thing about them is their scheme, so Moriarty being behind them makes things more interesting.

Sherlock however doles out the same treatment to some of the most interesting antagonists of the original stories, such as Jefferson Hope and Irene Adler. The treatment of Irene is perhaps the very worst thing the show ever did, and perhaps the worst adaptation of the character ever (and this is a character that is so often distorted in adaptations)

The original short story, A Scandal in Bohemia is the story of Irene Adler defeating Sherlock. She is not a villain, doesn’t actually blackmail anyone, and is not a love interest for Holmes. She actually marries someone else right in front of his face. It is a good story, with Irene defeating him teaching both Sherlock and the audience that women can also be smart.

The episode of Sherlock which “adapts” this story is pretty much the opposite. Irene Adler is a villain who blackmails people. Instead of being an opera singer, she is now a dominatrix, and this is treated with all the sensitivity of a Frank Miller. And also a lesbian with stereotypical man-hating tendencies.

Now a lesbian villain could still be interesting, but the writing makes sure she is not. She is not even a truly independent villain, instead she is like most villains in Sherlock on Moriarty’s payroll. And the lesbian thing turns out to mean naught, as she falls in love with Sherlock. Apparently Sherlock is so attractive that he can turn lesbians straight. This infatuation leads to her losing to Sherlock and afterwards becoming a damsel in distress that Sherlock rescues.

It is amazing how something written and broadcast in 2012 is far more misogynistic than a short story from 1891, but BBC Sherlock managed to do it.

Jefferson Hope isn’t treated as bad, because he doesn’t have to contend with the writer’s misogyny. But it is still a terrible adaptation of the character. In the original A Study in Scarlet, half of the novel is given to depict his backstory and his sympathetic reasons for killing the people he did. Some readers dislike that part of the book, but it makes the story much better for being there. It gives the murderer a more complex character.

The show makes a hash out of this when adapting the character for the first episode. Now Hope is a simplistically evil character, who kills people because Moriarty pays him to. Thanks to some decent acting, he gets an ok Hannibal Lecter style confrontation with Sherlock, but it has more to do with Thomas Harris than Arthur Conan Doyle.

And it demonstrates maybe one of the most important differences between the canon and Sherlock. The Canon is very much interested in characters who are not Holmes. The stories are often more about the people Holmes and Watson meet while investigating their cases, than the detective himself.

Sherlock doesn’t give a damn about anyone who isn’t the main character. So despite having one of the most cruel versions of Holmes ever filmed, the stories are actually less morally ambiguous than the original stories. People who were antagonists to Holmes but not evil in the books are turned into malevolent villains. The show isn’t concerned with creating relatable and complex motivations and backstories for them and make them into characters in their own right, they are only interesting as foils for Sherlock.

The show’s version of Charles Augustus Milverton, who is turned into a Dane named Magnussen, is one of the few villains which are not neutered by being a pawn for Moriarty. His episode, “His Last Vow” is therefore one of the better episodes that don’t directly involve Moriarty. It is helped by a delightfully slimy performance from Lars Mikkelsen, which is enjoyable in a similar way to Andrew Scott’s Moriarty. But the episode also illustrates the show’s problems.

Again the writers decide Sherlock is too important to deal with an ordinary if particularly reprehensible blackmailer, so the show turns Milverton into a supervillain who uses blackmail to control entire governments and has become one of the most powerful people on the planet.

Any tension that is created by the performance and the high stakes is however undercut by perhaps the most serious writing problem this show has: the nonsensical plots and mysteries. The episode’s big reveal is a case in point. The finale reveals Magnussen doesn’t have any physical or digital evidence of the stuff he uses to blackmail people with, he just uses his impressive memory to memorize the information.

The problem with this is that it turns Magnussen into just a huge bluff, with a blackmail empire built on sand. Anyone of his victims could have stopped his rise to becoming one of the most powerful men on the planet by just asking him for proof. Of course, this also means there is nothing stopping anyone from just killing him which is what Sherlock promptly does once Magnussen tells Sherlock his secret for no good reason. This show builds up this super-clever villain and reveals that he is actually just a fool with a good memory, except it treats this as if this ludicrous scheme makes him even more clever.

Sherlock shooting Magnussen is a change from the original story that is very emblematic of how this show works. Milverton is shot in the original story, but by a female victim of his taking revenge. Sherlock and Watson’s role in the story’s finale is merely destroying Milverton’s physical blackmail evidence.

Moffat and Gatiss have removed agency from a female character in the canon and transferred her actions to the male hero. They even suggest the original story by having Mary Watson break into Magnussen’s mansion and hold him at gunpoint.

And her shooting him would have worked so much better as well, for they had prior in the episode made the bizarre reveal that mary was once a professional contract killer. It is an absurd backstory for it comes out of nowhere, but it could have made sense as part of the plot if it explains why Mary is able to break into Magnussen’s home and kill him. But no, Holmes stops Mary from killng Magnussen, and sedates her. The only reason for this seems to be the scriptwriter’s firm belief that women characters can not affect the plot in BBC’s Sherlock, only the male hero can.

And that seemingly minor change in adapting the story perhaps sums up the show perfectly. It adapts the original short stories with carelessness, picking the bits it pleases for the sole purpose to glorify and idealize its cruel male fantasy in the form of its supposed hero, who bears little in common with the character created by Arthur Conan Doyle.

#not tagging this because don't want to bother the fans with this in their tags #even general ones like character names that are true across incarnations #idk if tumblr searches now go after non-tag text as well but oh well

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